Pages

Thursday, 4 April 2013

# The farmer wants a...

wife...E - I - Adio The farmer wants wife #The story of the farmer, his wife of five years and her 1930's Austin Seven.

This isn't it!*I ought to say now, this little story doesn't have a happy ending.It's snowing in the Weald of Kent, and yes I should be ironing, however...I find a little light blogging eases the pain of a throbbing thumb.Back in the day; on my return from the Highlands, after five years of living a self sufficient life, I returned to York.I needed a job, and managed to land a well paid job selling chemicals and fertiliserto farmers. Don't ask... yes me from living an organical life to that!Needless to say I was absolutely blooming hopeless.My boss used to say'Linda the only thing you sell is yourself!' Well it's before the 9 o clock watershed so we won't go into that! Joke!'The dour Yorkshire farmers' warm to your bubbly outgoing personality,it's just a pity you can't sell the products!'I didn't last long; no surprise there.Along the way I met a young farmer, eight years younger than me.He I think, saw an unpaid helper hoving into view, plus a means toget away from his father and brother.Me, well I don't know what I saw; perhaps in my naive way Ithought farming with the use of tractors must be a lot easier thanthe life I'd just left... wrong!The days of unending toil on a small dairy farm, I just can't begin totell you. The highlight of my day was scraping out the muck on my little red Fergie tractor. I drove huge trailers with big round bales through theVale of York. Loaded and unloaded thousands of small bales of straw.The reason I now think, for my very worn out thumb.Life was hard... bloody hard.During that time, my father died. He lived about fifteen miles away,and because of the workload I didn't get to see him as often as Iwould have liked.I phoned one Sunday afternoon of a very stormy weekend to see how he was. A police officer answered the phone.'He's dead isn't he!''I'm afraid so!'Dad had died that Saturday night alone in his lovely littlecottage and I wasn't there for him.Something in my heart changed, I could see the grinding toil of my lifestretching ahead without cease.I knew, I just knew.With some of my inheritance I bought myself an oldAustin 7, British Racing Green,BOL 715The numberplate amused me, what with me living such a champagne lifestyle.I loved that car, although it cost me a fortune.It continually broke down on my trips into York;husband with serious hump would come out to tow me home.Being towed at 40 - 50 miles an hour along twistycountry roads is not an experience I would recommend to anyone!His way of getting me back I thought, for spending the money on something totally unsuitable: and yes I suppose he had a point.One bleak morning I got up and knew I had to go.I threw some clothes into a bag, got my little car outand drove away without a word. Still milking, he didn't see me go.I drove to my father's cottage, which luckily I'd kept, for this reason?I think so, that's a lie, I know so.That evening he arrived'I've come to take you home!''No, I'm sorry!'Why, did I say yes when he asked me to marry him?A question I've asked myself many times.There is no answer!

* Can you believe that the only record of my little car and time on the farm, is on the Masterchef tapes?

I went from bottom left hand corner, a village near Tunbridge Wells to top right, North West coast, 10 miles north of Lochinver.

I think it was the snow yesterday making me feel melancholy. The bottom line for me is... enjoy. My trouble is, as Ted often says I do tend to put myself down. I think perhaps he's right, although I'd never let him know! As you might imagine that wasn't the full story. Thank you for commenting, it cheered me up, because I thought I'd frightened every other bod off!

Your Austin Seven brought back bittersweet memories for me - I was about 12 and it belonged to Alan next door, with whom I was in love. He called his car Ying Tong (he painted this neatly on the bonnet) and he played in a skiffle band. Swoon!

My Uncle Jack had an open top Austin Seven and as kids we all thought it was a scream; not knowing really whether we were ashamed or delighted to be in it?

Donkey years ago when I worked on the Kentish Times, I well remember taking an advertisement for one for the princely sum of 18 quid, can you believe that? And worse than that I didn't frigging buy it! Happy days.